When at last the bell rang downstairs on Saturday and a familiar voice was heard on the stairs, she was so glad that she burst into sobs; she rushed to meet him, embraced him, kissed his chest and sleeves, said something that couldn’t be understood. The porter brought in the suitcases, Polya’s cheerful voice was heard. As if somebody had come on vacation!
‘‘Why didn’t you send me any telegrams?’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna said, breathing heavily with joy. ‘‘Why? I was tormented, I barely survived this time . . . Oh, my God!’’
‘‘Very simple! The senator and I went to Moscow that first day, I never received your telegrams,’’ said Orlov. ‘‘After dinner, my heart, I’ll give you a most detailed report, but now sleep, sleep, sleep . . . I got worn out on the train.’’
It was obvious that he hadn’t slept all night: he probably played cards and drank a lot. Zinaida Fyodorovna put him to bed, and after that, we all went around on tiptoe till evening. Dinner passed quite successfully, but when they went to the study for coffee, a talk began. Zinaida Fyodorovna spoke of something quickly, in a low voice; she spoke in French, and her speech bubbled like a brook, then came a loud sigh from Orlov and the sound of his voice.
‘‘My God!’’ he said in French. ‘‘Don’t you have any fresher news than this eternal song about the villainous maid?’’
‘‘But my dear, she stole from me and said all sorts of impudent things.’’
‘‘But why doesn’t she steal from me and say impudent things? Why do I never notice maids, or caretakers, or servants? My dear, you’re simply capricious and don’t want to show character... I even suspect you’re pregnant. When I offered to dismiss her for you, you demanded that she stay, and now you want me to chase her out. But I’m also stubborn on such occasions: I answer caprice with caprice. You want her to go, well, and now I want her to stay. It’s the only way to cure you of your nerves.’’
‘‘Well, all right, all right!’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna said fearfully. ‘‘Let’s stop talking about it . . . Let’s put it off till tomorrow. Now tell me about Moscow... What’s happening in Moscow?’’
X
AFTER LUNCH THE next day—it was the seventh of January, the day of John the Baptist—Orlov put on a black tailcoat and a decoration to go to his father and wish him a happy name day. He was to go by two, but when he finished dressing, it was only half past one. How to spend this half hour? He paced about the drawing room and declaimed the congratulatory verses he used to read to his father and mother as a child. Zinaida Fyodorovna, who was about to go to the seamstress or the store, was sitting there and listening to him with a smile. I don’t know how the conversation started, but when I brought Orlov his gloves, he was standing in front of Zinaida Fyodorovna, saying to her with a capricious, pleading face:
‘‘For God’s sake, for the sake of all that’s holy, don’t talk about something that’s already known to each and every one! What is this unfortunate ability our intelligent, thinking ladies have to speak with passion and an air of profundity about something that has long since set even schoolboys’ teeth on edge? Ah, if only you could exclude all these serious questions from our marital program! What a favor it would be!’’
‘‘We women should not dare our own judgment to bear.’’18
‘‘I give you full freedom, be liberal and quote any authors you like, but make me one concession, do not discuss these two things in my presence: the perniciousness of high society and the abnormality of marriage. Understand, finally. High society is always denounced, so as to contrast it with the society in which merchants, priests, tradesmen, and muzhiks live—all sorts of Sidors and Nikitas. Both societies are loathsome to me, but if, in all conscience, I were offered the choice between the one and the other, I would choose high society without a second thought, and it would not be a lie or an affectation, because all my tastes are on its side. Our society is trite and trivial, but at least you and I speak decent French, read this and that, and don’t start poking each other in the ribs, even when we’re having a bad quarrel, while with the Sidors, the Nikitas, and their honors, it’s sure thing, right-o, a belt in the gob, and totally unbridled pot-house manners and idolatry.’’
‘‘The muzhiks and merchants feed you.’’
‘‘Yes, and what of it? That’s a poor recommendation not only for me but for them. They feed me and kowtow to me, meaning they don’t have enough intelligence and honesty to act otherwise. I’m not denouncing or praising anybody, I only want to say: high society and low—both are better. In my heart and mind, I’m against them both, but my tastes are on the side of the former. Well, ma’am, and as for the abnormalities of marriage now,’’ Orlov went on, glancing at his watch, ‘‘it’s time you understood that there are no abnormalities, but as yet there are only indefinite demands on marriage. What do you want of marriage? In lawful and unlawful cohabitation, in all unions and cohabitations, good or bad, there is one and the same essence. You ladies live only for this essence, it’s everything for you, without it your existence would have no meaning for you. You need nothing except this essence, and that’s what you take, but now that you’ve read yourselves up on novels, you’ve become ashamed of taking it, and you rush about hither and thither, recklessly changing men, and to justify this turmoil, you’ve begun to talk about the abnormalities of marriage. Since you cannot and do not want to eliminate the essence, your chief enemy, your Satan, since you go on serving it slavishly, what serious conversation can there be? Whatever you say to me will be nonsense and affectation. I won’t believe you.’’
I went to find out from the porter whether the cab was there, and when I came back, I found them quarreling. As sailors say, the wind had picked up.
‘‘I see you want to astound me with your cynicism today,’’ Zinaida Fyodorovna was saying, pacing the drawing room in great agitation. ‘‘I find it disgusting to listen to you. I am pure before God and men and have nothing to repent of. I left my husband for you, and I’m proud of it. Proud of it, I swear to you on my honor!’’
‘‘Well, that’s splendid.’’
‘‘If you’re an honorable, decent man, you also should be proud of my act. It raises me and you above thousands of people who would like to act in the same way as I, but don’t dare to out of faintheartedness or petty calculation. But you’re not a decent man. You’re afraid of freedom and make fun of an honorable impulse for fear that some ignoramus might suspect you of being an honorable man. You’re afraid to show me to your acquaintances, there’s no higher punishment for you than to drive down the street with me . . . What? Isn’t it true? Why have you still not introduced me to your father and your cousin? Why? No, I’m tired of it, finally!’’ cried Zinaida Fyodorovna, and she stamped her foot. ‘‘I demand what belongs to me by right. Be so good as to introduce me to your father!’’